Meet Wesley

He sat idly by the side of the road, watching the cars pass by. His sandy-blond hair rustled slightly in the breeze, cascading over his lively, hazel eyes, the irises colored like tie-dye, mossy green to rich light brown. Those eyes reflected a smile like they always did, although his mouth didn’t always show it. All he had to do was lock gazes with another, and his glance could tell a story.

His name was Wesley, Wesley O’Bryan. He sat silently, listening to the hum of car motors as the vehicles passed down the street by his parent’s suburban house in Michigan. At seventeen he was ready to move out, always looking for something new. Rebelling was like second nature to him, ever since the beginning of high school. For him, it was senior year, the work of the past high school years strangely fresh in his active and always quick mind.

Hearing a call from his mother, he glanced back, not too concerned about replying. She could wait a few more minutes. Her voice came again from the house porch and the stubborn side of him kicked in. So he sat there lazily, while she came up to him and ordered him to the house. He grinned up at her with a big smile and jumped to his feet, standing about six inches taller than his mother. He was the perfect height for being a football quarterback, a position he had played for some time now.

He was still grinning as he followed his mother inside, clearly ignoring every word she said and being the twenty-first century boy he was. He shrugged his broad shoulders when she asked if he was listening, honestly not caring if she scolded him. The scolding had never stopped him in the past, neither had the grounding. He always found a way around it.

Now inside the house, he situated himself on the bottom step of the staircase to the second floor. Bored to death already he sat, running two of his fingers over the hump in the bridge of his nose, the spot where he had broken it last year in a fight after school. He kept quiet, except for a soft and absent minded humming, as his mother turned to work on dinner once again. He didn’t need to speak yet, it would only make things take longer and possibly start another lecture. His mother had asked him to set the table for the two of them, his twin little sisters, and Mr. O’Bryan, who was coming home any minute now with the twins. Setting the table was a task Wesley was quite capable of, but he didn’t feel like doing. Why was it necessary to eat at a table anyway? He could handle eating right here on the bottom step of the staircase, he’d eaten at stranger places before. This was because of his absolute favorite past-time: camping.

Camping was freedom, and Wesley loved freedom. Michael Amerson was often his partner on these camping trips, trips they took at least once a year. Wesley was used to roughing it; he was built for a tough environment. His shoulders were broad and his arms were strong; he stood sturdily, but was quite agile. He had incredible endurance for long hikes and was always on top of his game. He closed his eyes and smiled, remembering his last trip with Michael back in the summer; it had been their best yet. He began to wonder what they would do next, maybe a winter trip over Christmas break. What could be better than that? It would be a true test of endurance. So there sat Wesley O’Bryan, the average boy of seventeen, as he began to plan his next escape to the forests of Michigan.